


Hotel Road: Outtakes

by IntoTheRiverStyx



Series: Took my Boat Down to Hotel Road [7]
Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23415481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheRiverStyx/pseuds/IntoTheRiverStyx
Summary: As with any life, the lives of Camelot reborn have moments that happen so far off-screen that they are all but forgotten.But, every once in a while, they're preserved. And, even less frequently, they're shared.
Relationships: Bedivere/Kay (Arthurian), Dinadan/Palamedes, Elaine/Isuelt, Galehaut/Lancelot du Lac, Gareth/Lynette, Gawain/Bertilak de Hautdesert, Guinevere/Arthur Pendragon, Isolde the Fair/Tristan (Arthurian)
Series: Took my Boat Down to Hotel Road [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663936
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	1. We Found a Cult

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Arthurian Discord Server went absolutely feral for a couple of hours last night and into the morning, and well.
> 
> Well.
> 
> Shoutout to [Val](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aggravain/pseuds/aggravain) for letting me use an adapted version of the email he tried to send the cult owner.

“Seriously?” Mordred tried to remove Gaheris from the counter by his wrists, “This isn't either of our houses!”

Gaheris braced his feet against Mordred's ribs and tried to use the leverage to keep himself on the counter.

“They have beds! Couches! Probably some air mattresses!” Mordred tried to pull harder, using Gaheris' voluntary center of gravity shift to his advantage.

“Kay would have a fit if he saw anyone trying to nap on the counters,” Galahad had his phone pointed at the brothers.

“No!” Gaheris rolled himself off the counter and onto the floor, causing Mordred to crash to the floor with him.

“I hope you got that on video,” Mordred told Galahad as he made his way back to standing.

“Are you actually going to send it to Kay?” Gaheris scrambled to his feet.

Galahad shrugged, a noncommittal thing.

“It's amazing how Kay's name still strikes fear into everyone's souls,” Agrivane remarked from the couches.

“Say _Kay_ and anything related to kitchens and _fit_ in the same sentence and it's like an evocation of fear,” Galahad agreed.

“Lake the gods of old,” Gawain added.

“How many of you _got here_ while I was napping?” Gaheris asked.

“Just,” Agrivane did a head count, “those four. And Lamorak and I are awake.”

“So did you three get up early to come here and go back to bed?” Bertilak asked.

“I was going to do some work,” Agrivane yawned.

“It's Saturday!” Gaheris sounded scandalized.

“Which is why I'm not at the hotel,” Agrivane pointed out, “Their WiFi's faster.”

“Did I hear my name?” Kay called from the stairs.

“You've summoned him,” Mordred looked to Galahad.

“Like the gods of old,” Kay said, “What's going on down here?”

“Uh,” Gaheris looked to Mordred, who looked to Galahad, who was looking at Gaheris, “Shenanigans?”

Kay shook his head and went back up the stairs.

–

“I wonder if there's people out there who believe you _can_ summon us,” Lamorak wondered aloud once he was a bit more awake. He was gnawing on a raw bagel, unsliced, seated on the kitchen counter.

“Only one way to find out,” Agrivane was already on his laptop.

“Oh man,” Gaheris was over Agrivane's shoulder in an instant, “Why'd you search for _Arthurian cult_?”

“A cult seems like the most likely descriptor for summoning groups,” Agrivane argued.

Lamorak made a noise.

“Finish your bagel or put it down,” Agrivane told him, “You know how I feel about crumbs near the laptop.”

“Oh holy shit,” Mordred squinted at the screen, “Look at that.”

“Arthur's cult,” Galahad read off the site title, “Not exactly subtle if they're going for the normal secrecy of a cult.”

“I'm going in,” Agrivane announced.

“The site's run by two people called Gawain and Tristan,” Bertilak joined the crowd.

“Impostor!” Gawain laughed, “I'm calling Tristan...Yes! You're on speaker!”

“Why am I on speaker at eight on a Saturday?” Tristan asked.

“We found a cult!” Gawain said.

“Found or founded?” Dinadan's voice came from further away than Tristan's, “You're also on speaker.”

“Found,” Gawain sighed, “But founding is not off the table.”

“Yes it is,” Bertilak chimed in.

“A cult?” Isolde asked.

“So far it looks like a pagan-type group focused on Arthurian...stories? Retellings?” Agrivane couldn't tell.

“What's going _on_ down here?” Bedivere called from midway down the stairs.

“A cult!” Gawain informed him.

Bedivere's footfalls went back to the stairs.

“Anyways, the site says it's called “the Order of the Mailed Fist,” Mordred started reading off some of the text.

“I'm calling Arthur,” Gaheris announced, “Hey? Yeah, no, not about the winery. Agrivane found a cult and...yeah, I can put you on speaker, hold on.”

“Jenny!” Arthur was calling, “Jenny, it's a cult!”

“Again?” Jenny's voice filtered in from somewhere deeper in the house.

“Again?” Lancelot asked, Galehaut, Bedivere, and Kay close behind him.

“Nevermind that,” Arthur was quick to say, “What's going on?”

“I have it pulled up on my phone!” Dinadan told everyone, “Looks like it's some sort of...neopagan? Mythical Christian? They really do not have their messaging in order.”

“There's a lot of magic references,” Palamedes said, “Who's missing this?”

“Uh,” Galahad looked around, “Ellie, Izz, Yvain, Bors, Percival, and the six-pack.”

“The six-pack should be on their way by now,” Gaheris said.

“Were you all just going to assemble in my kitchen until I woke up?” Lancelot asked.

“Our,” Galehaut nudged him.

“Our,” Lancelot corrected himself.

“Can someone send me the link?” Arthur asked.

“Already on it,” Kay said.

“Oh, wow, this site looks like something from the nineties,” Arthur said after a brief pause, “and hasn't been updated since.”

“There's definitely some elements that suggest the site itself was abandoned but the site host forced some updates to keep it alive,” Agrivane assessed.

“Hey look, they call Arthur the sun child,” Dinadan said.

“Well now I just feel stiffed,” Gawain grumped.

“That's a problem for elsewhere,” Bertilak said absently.

“What the hell?” Yvain's voice joined in.

“Gawain's feeling -” Gaheris started but was cut off by an elbow to the ribs.

“We've found a cult!” Mordred told him.

“As in,” Agrivane was quick to clarify, “we located one, online, not joined or started our own.”

“Are we talking about MLMs?” Percival's voice came through Galahad's phone, “Gal, did you wake me up to discuss pyramid schemes?”

“No, it's a cult,” Galahad told him.

Percival groaned, and then, “BORS! What's worse, a cult or a pyramid scheme?”

“There's a difference?” Bors mumbled, clearly barely having began the process of waking up.

“Oh holy shit they have a newsletter,” Arthur said.

“Where?” Agrivane asked, “No, wait, found it.”

“Damn,” Dinadan's frown could he heard, “looks like the newsletters weren't preserved.”

“Hold on I'm grabbing my laptop,” Kay told everyone.

“Oh gods,” Bedivere watched Kay disappear back up the stairs, “it's about to get real.”

“It's already real weird,” Percival remarked, “What's going on?”

“I just sent you the site,” Galahad told him.

A few beats of silence.

“What the fuck?” Percival asked.

“Okay,” Kay had clearly been running, “Someone send em the site or at least point me in the right direction.”

“Here,” Galahad handed his phone to Kay, the website pulled up.

“Thanks,” Kay handed Galahad his phone back.

“Okay, yeah, super Pagan,” Percival said, “Really not sure how they thought they could get away with calling themselves anything else.”

“The nineties were a time,” Arthur said.

“Pagan and Pagan references are everywhere!” Percival argued.

“A Time,” Arthur repeated.

“I found one!” Kay exclaimed, “Oh wayback machine, I love you.”

“Well don't say that without having one pulled up,” Gaheris said.

“Oh hey, they have their own Galahad, Owen, Mordred, Tristan, Isolde, Percival, and Bors,” Kay rattled off the names he was finding in the newsletter.

“I've seen these movies,” Percival said, “I know what must be done.”

“No murder,” Bors warned.

Percival made a discontented sound.

“And we're sure this is an actual cult, not a roleplaying site?” Lancelot asked.

“Which would you rather is be, Lance?” Arthur asked.

“Okay fair point,” Lancelot didn't uncross his arms.

No one was sure which that meant.

“I want to find them,” Percival said.

“No,” Dinadan said, “You've had enough quests involving finding religions and associated objects for two lifetimes.”

“I haven't,” Gaheris offered.

Agrivane banged his head on the kitchen table.

“What's going on in here?” Ragnelle called from the doorway.

“Cult stuff!” Gaheris called back.

“Aww,” Bedivere was reading over Kay's shoulder while Kay used Galehaut's shoulder to balance his laptop, “their Tristan and Isolde got married and then divorced.”

“Armatures!” Isolde exclaimed.

The six-pack crowded around Kay's laptop. Gareth stood on his toes to try to get s good view.

Bedivere placed himself between them and Kay that they could still see but Kay had some space.

“Oh god,” Agrivane said, “they have pictures.”

“Pictures?” Gareth slipped in to crowd his brother, “Oh, wow, yeah. And descriptions.”

“Their Percival sounds like a nudist,” Galahad remarked.

“Good for theirs,” Percival said with a laugh.

“We should let them know we have the real Percival,” Gaheris suggested.

“They do have an email,” Agrivane pointed out.

“Okay but who wants to write it?” Lamorak asked.

“I will,” Lancelot couldn't resist the temptation.

“Excellent,” Bedivere said.

“Can we all help draft it?” Lionel asked.

“Sure,” Lancelot was generally down for group bonding activities, regardless of their sanity.

“We should let them know we have the real Knights,” Tristan suggested.

“Threaten to steal their cult,” Yvain added.

“On it!” Lancelot was typing frantically.

“Oh man,” Dinadan's voice cut through the chatter, “They have a part that goes on about the cult being in the open as a part of defying the House Un-American Activities Committee.”

“The what?” Gaheris asked.

“Oh, right, you're still British,” Dinadan said.

“SCOTTISH!” all five Orkney brothers exclaimed.

“Not American,” Dinadan rolled his eyes.

“The short of it,” Galehaut explained, “is America went super anti-Communism in the cold war.”

“Except everything was communist,” Arthur added, “Music, movies, books, anything the Government thought might incite rebellion.”

“This keeps getting weirder,” Kay said absently, “Oh, look, they also have a Galehaut.”

“What?” Galehaut couldn't see either screen.

“Oh it looks like he had some drama surrounding Christianity and paganism in regards to the cult,” Bedivere said.

“Did he,” Dinadan asked, “Did he realize what the entire site said about Pagan retellings?”

“Probably not,” Jenny said, “This was definitely the nineties.”

“What happened in the nineties?” Gaheris asked.

“The Internet came to everyone's homes on CD-ROMs,” Arthur said, “Delivered with the rest of the junk mail and bills.”

“Okay but what _actually_ happened?” Gaheris whined.

“The Internet came on CD-ROMs,” Galehaut repeated, “In the mail. For free, if you didn't get another phone line to keep your house line free. As a result something like five decades of material was created in a single decade with absolutely no oversight.”

“There's still no oversight,” Kay pointed out.

“Just more people who like to call bullshit,” Arthur agreed.

“But rarely on things that matter,” Bedivere added.

“What's another word for dear?” Lancelot asked.

“Stag?” Gawain offered.

“Hart!” Gareth suggested.

“Yes but no,” Lancelot chuckled, “As in dearly beloved. I'm trying to make this sound like it was written in the same time period they've set themselves in.”

“Just smash your hand on the keyboard a bunch of times,” Arthur suggested, “Almost none of us knew how to write.”

“They're set in the fourteen hundreds,” Lancelot pointed out.

“Pretty sure my point still stands,” Arthur teased.

“Beloved,” Gawain offered.

“Darling?” Ragnelle suggested.

“Fucker,” Agrivane added.

“Sweetheart?” Mordred tried to offer something.

“None of these are historic,” Lancelot pointed out.

“What's wrong with beloved?” Gawain asked.

“Shawty,” Yvain threw in.

“Bae,” Palamedes said, “Ellie and Izz are going to be so mad they're on a hike.”

Dinadan laughed, a loud thing close to the microphone.

“Elyan's going to sleep through this,” Bors added.

“Esteemed?” Tristan asked.

“Dearest motherfucker,” Galahad laughed.

Overlapping suggestions – Foul Knight, Randy, Your Grace, Babe, Dipshit – continued as Lancelot typed away on his phone.

“Okay if we're going to make it affectionate I'm going to suggest you sign it in Bertilak's name,” Ragnelle chimed in.

“Oh, sure thing,” Lancelot's smile turned into a feral grin.

“I fear,” Gawain sounded nowhere near worried,

“Casual identity theft,” Lancelot said.

“Identity theft is not a joke, Lancelot,” Bertilak was laughing.

“Please tell me you're using an email not attached to the hotel,” Galehaut said.

“Oh fuck no,” Lancelot was quick to say, “Should we let him know how many Knights plan on cult theft in retribution for identity theft?”

“Nah,” Arthur said, “surprise them.”

“And where should I tell them to meet us?” Lancelot asked.

“Where's a place that embodies the sheer wild, unhinged energies going on here?” Jenny asked.

“A Denny's parking lot,” Kay suggested.

“...one day I want you to tell me what the hell live you and Bedivere have lived before you showed up here,” Arthur told Kay.

“One day,” Kay promised.

“Okay, how's this sound?” Lancelot began to read the email aloud: “To your Grace King of Orkney, Lothian, and Norway, and Emperor of Rome, Sir Gawain,

“Firstly, it is wonderful to see a friendly face in this day and age, the remaining lords I know are spread few and far between, the group I am currently in contact with still remain devoted to the cause of protecting The Good King's reign.

“I recently became aware of your order by stumbling upon your webpage ("Arthur's Cult") while trying to find others like us to return Camelot to her former glory and take back what was stolen from us in the generations our table laid slumbering. 

“However, it worries me deeply that there appear to be a number of impostors around your Table. For the sake of the Camelot herself, I encourage you and yours to come and discover which soul holds the truth.

“If you are willing to accept, then I issue the gauntlet to you, my Esteemed Lord. I will stand at nothing to bring our once flourishing kingdom back and that includes you, ami. My Noble Companion, do not tarry in your response, our company awaits news of you, My Beloved, eagerly and with open arms.

“I shall await you at the Green Chapel (the Denny's down 611).

“Lord Bertilak xoxoxoxo”

“The x's and o's fucking kill me,” Bertilak was howling.

“Just,” Arthur was laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes, “show up fully armed at Denny's and with no mention of the intention of taking their cult from them.”

“Sent!” Lancelot said.

“Oh gods,” Kay shut his laptop and placed it against the wall on the ground before he dropped it, “This is happening.

“It would be more terrifying to see the elder members of Camelot Nuevo so excited about something if it wasn't this fucking funny,” Gareth said to Lynette as quietly as he could.

“Yeah,” she agreed, unable to control her own laughter.

“Oh no,” Lancelot's face fell, “Address not found.”

“Oh damn,” Kay frowned.

“Did they have any other contact information on the site?” Gaheris suggested.

“I can parse the code,” Agrivane decided he was going to whether or not anyone encouraged him.  
Everyone gathered around Agrivane and watched as he did his best to find anything of use.

He really, really wanted to see if the email can be sent.

“Can you imagine,” Arthur didn't have any visual cues to tell how intently everyone at the Du Lac residence was focused on Agrivane's work, “not touching something for anywhere between twenty and forty years and then getting _that email_.”

“I cannot imagine being forty,” Gaheris said. Mordred thwapped him on the back of the head. “Hey!”

“Okay, so,” Agrivane interrupted before it became a tussle, “Looks like there's mostly code for establishing which ads can and cannot run on the site.”

“Can and can't?” Sagramore asked.

“No porn,” Agrivane said, “but everything else is fair game.”

“Wait, how much is ads and how much is content?” Bertilak asked.

“Almost all ads,” Agrivane shut his laptop, “Somewhere, someone who's stole Gawain and/or Tristan's names is getting a check because we're a bunch of nosy bastards.”

“Knights of the Capitalist Table,” Galahad said under his breath.

“Siege Penniless,” Tristan added.

“Quest for the Holy Grand?” Percival suggested.

“I cannot believe we all just fell for an ad trap,” Kay was still laughing.

“NO CULTS!” Bors' voice boomed.

“I didn't even say anything!” Percival tried to defend himself.

“No cults!” Bertilak grabbed Gawain's phone.

“Hey!” Gawain squawked, “Okay, fine, can I have my phone back?”

Mordred and Agrivane decided, silently, that watching their elder brother get put in electronics time-out by an elder god made the whole thing even better.


	2. To Dye For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agrivane loses a bet.

Gawain and Agrivane stood just over a step and a half apart, arms crossed, a cold fury burning behind both their eyes.

“Bet,” Agrivane hissed.

“Fine,” Gawain all but spat, “I win, you dye your hair a color of my choosing.”

“I win and you tell me what you did with the peanut butter,” Agrivane stated his end of the bargain.

There was a moment of horror that flashed over Gawain's face.

“The peanut butter thing was five years ago,” Mordred said to Galahad, “and while I'm a little horrified this has gone into forced body modification territory I really, really don't want to know what happened to the peanut butter.”

“Oh gods,” Galahad whispered.

“Fine,” Gawain agreed.

“Deal,” Agrivane held out a hand.

They shook on it.

“What are they betting on?” Kay asked, having just made his way back to the foyer where everyone was standing, “Also, if you're going to escalate again, move it outside, the Doctor Who Christmas Special starts in five.”

“I WIN!” Gawain whooped.

“Could they not have just googled it or whatever Gawain's iPhone does?” Galahad asked.

“We're Orkneys,” Gawain was grinning like a madman, “We don't do anything the easy way.”

“I bet that sounded better in his head,” Mordred noted as an aside.

“I've had enough bets for one Christmas,” Agrivane decided.

–

“So are you here to make sure we don't, like, try to cheat the bet?” Gaheris asked Bedivere, who was perched on the back of the downstairs toilet, feet on the lid.

“What? No,” Bedivere looked up from his phone, “I'm here to make sure you lot don't wand up blinding each other with bleach or getting more dye on Agrivane's face than his hair. Also, everything's on the counter.”

“I should thank you,” Agrivane told him, “but I can't believe I lost that bet.”

“Maybe next time you'll renegotiate the terms,” Bedivere said.

“I'd be lying if I said I haven't always been a little curious what I'd look like with a different hair color,” Agrivane sighed, “It's just such a nerve-wracking thing, you know?”

“I'd imagine,” Lamorak tried to be empathetic.

“It's a thing,” Gaheris agreed.

“Bedivere?” Lamorak asked.

“What?” Bedivere was already looking at his phone again, “Oh, yeah, nah, my hair's already been every color you can imagine and then some. It's hair. It grows back just in time to do it all over.”

“You've what?” Agrivane asked.

“When I was younger,” Bedivere ignored Agrivane's surprise, “So, you ready for this?”

“What color did he pick?” Agrivane asked.

“Pink,” Bedivere said, “though to be fair he wrote down every Manic Panic color on little strips of paper before pulling one out of a cup.”

“Of course he did,” Gaheris laughed.

“So how does this work?” Agrivane asked, “I mean, beyond the obvious steps, how does this work?”

“Well,” Bedivere put his phone in his pocket, “either get in a shirt you don't mind getting ruined or go shirtless, and either go pantsless or wear pants you don't mind risking, for one, since we don't have any sort of protective covering. It'll go bleach, let it sit, shower, dry your hair completely, pink, let _that_ sit for ten or fifteen minutes, take the hair dryer to it on high, let it sit again, then wash that out. Up to you if you want to dry it after that or let it air dry.”

“I don't have a hair dryer?” Agrivane hadn't meant for it to come out as a question.

“It's in my bag,” Bedivere said.

“You have a hair dryer?” Lamorak asked.

“Kay had a hair dryer,” Bedivere corrected them, “He made me promise to bring it back in one piece.”

“Huh,” the sound escaped Gaheris more than he made a noise.

“Where should this happen?” Agrivane asked.

“In here,” Bedivere said, “the sink's deeper than the upstairs bathroom and you do _not_ want to do this in the kitchen sink.”

“Alright,” Agrivane shrugged, “let's get started.”

–

It was easiest, with how closely Gaheris and Lamorak wanted to watch the process, for Agrivane to sit on the closed toilet while Bedivere applied Vaseline on his forehead, ears, and neck.

“This will protect your skin,” Bedivere was wearing gloves over both hands and holding the jar in his myoelectric hand, “We'll need to do it again when we do the pink.”

“It's so weird,” Agrivane said.

“You'll get used to it,” Bedivere assured him, “Do you normally keep your hair this long?”

“Kind of?” Agrivane resisted the urge to shake his head, “I tend to prefer it just a bit past my ears but I've been getting kind of lazy about actually getting it cut.”

Somehow, his hair had grown just past his shoulders when dry despite its natural waves and he hadn't really noticed.

“You could always cut it yourself,” Bedivere suggested.

“That sounds like a disaster in the works,” Gaheris said.

“Practice,” Bedivere said.

“No thanks,” Lamorak and Agrivane said together.

“Alright, one of you two,” Bedivere indicated Gaheris and Lamorak, “bleach box and all the parts in it, that's next.”

Gaheris was out and back in in a flash.

“Follow the instructions then hand it to me,” Bedivere told them, “Last chance to change you mind, Aggs.”

Agrivane grinned at the nickname. Suddenly the process didn't seem so daunting.

–

“Can I try?” Lamorak asked as Bedivere began applying the Vaseline to Agrivane's head and neck for the second time.

The bleach had set and been washed out, leaving Agrivane's hair a brassy yellow more than blonde.

“Sure,” Bedivere held the jar out towards Lamorak, “Careful not to get it in his hair and try not to leave any gaps.”

“Uh,” Lamorak blinked a few times before he took two fingers' worth of the stuff, “okay.”

“Can I try?” Gaheris asked.

“If you can get in without knocking Lamorak into the wall,” Bedivere shrugged.

Gaheris did his best to slide in, crowding Agrivane and Lamorak both.

“Group bonding,” Agrivane said with a laugh.

“Blonde really isn't your color,” Gaheris told him.

“Well good news there,” Bedivere pointed out, “is within the next hour that'll be covered up.” 

“I can't say I'm used to this much personal attention,” Agrivane admitted.

“Well then I'm just going to have to try harder,” Lamorak said, nearly absently.

Agrivane blushed.

–

“How long do I have to wait again?” Agrivane asked.

It had barely been five minutes since Bedivere had applied heat to the pink dye.

“It's vegetable based,” Bedivere told him, “so the longer you wait the richer the color turns out.”

“What if my hair gets really dry from the bleach?” Agrivane realized he should have asked before this point.”

“Conditioner,” Bedivere said like it was obvious.

“I'm hungry,” Gaheris complained.

“We can order something,” Lamorak offered.

“I can cook,” Bedivere offered, “It won't be Kay's but it won't be bad.”

“You're already done so much,” Agrivane said.

“It's just cooking,” Bedivere shrugged, “Is anything in the fridge off-limits?”

“Preferably the oat milk,” Lamorak said.

“And the olives,” Gaheris added.

“Easy enough,” Bedivere shrugged.

He started looking through the fridge.

“How do we feel about grilled ham and cheeses?” Bedivere asked.

The excited noises told him he'd had an excellent idea.

–

“Is it safe to eat with the hair dye still in?” Agrivane asked as he picked up his sandwich.

“If you're dripping we have a problem,” Bedivere was still cooking, “Just don't stick it in your hair and make sure you haven't managed to get dye on your hands.”

“Thanks,” Agrivane nodded.

“This is delicious!” Gaheris was talking with his mouth full, “What's your secret?”

“Mayo instead of butter on the outside of the bread,” Bedivere told them, “It's egg and oil so it crisps right up.”

“That's both fascinating and horrifying,” Lamorak informed him, “I never thought I'd _like_ mayo on something.”

“Mayo-electric,” Agrivane chuckled.

“Still one of the weirdest puns I've ever witnessed,” Agrivane noted.

“I was so fucking proud of it,” Bedivere chuckled, “but I think their Pictonary cards are a few decades old.”

“I don't think I've ever interacted with you without, like, seven other people around,” Gaheris realized, “You're somehow even more, like, calm and steady with just a few people.”

Bedivere chuckled again as he flipped his own sandwich.

–

“Alright,” Bedivere told Agrivane, “go shower. Let your water run until the runoff from your hair is clear.”

“Will I need special shampoo or conditioner?” Agrivane asked, “Like, not now, obviously, but for my next shower or whatever?”

“It wouldn't hurt,” Bedivere told him.

“Can you at least point me in the right direction?” Agrivane asked.

“Absolutely,” Bedivere nodded.

Agrivane thanked him and headed off to shower.

–

Bedivere clicked the hair dryer off.

“Well?” Bedivere asked.

“If I never have to experience another hair drier in my life, I'll be happy,” Agrivane shuddered, “but I don't hate it.”

Bedivere laughed, a rich sound that echoed in the bathroom.

“I like it,” Gaheris grabbed some of Agrivane's hair and held it up, “It's so. Wow.”

“You can pull it off,” Lamorak ran his fingers through Agrivane's hair on the other side of his body.

Agrivane finally, finally managed to look at his own reflection. He didn't recognize himself, but it was a nice shock.

With Lamorak, Gaheris, and Bedivere looking back with him with different types of pride, it was more than just kind of tolerable, even with his shirt off.

“After the pink fades I want to try purple,” Agrivane decided.


	3. Polaroid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pictionary becomes sharing night. Galahad gets a new jacket.

Why Lancelot had agreed to another night of everyone-for-themselves Pictionary so close to the last one was beyond him.

Bedivere indicated six words, drawing the fifth word.

“Vintage?” Lynette guessed.

Bedivere shook his head.

“Polaroid!” Guinevere exclaimed.

Bedivere nodded.

Yvain did some quick counting before he exclaimed, “Shake it like a Polaroid picture!”

“Yes!” Bedivere capped the marker and tossed it to Yvain.

“Oh come on!” Gaheris whined, “That is _not_ what a Polaroid looks like!”

Kay and Bedivere exchanged a quick grin.

“Back in a moment,” Bedivere said as he headed outside.

“Where's he going?” Yvain asked.

“He'll be back in a moment,” Kay told everyone.

Yvain held off on starting his round until Bedivere returned with – sure enough – a camera that looked close enough to the one he'd drawn that there was no way it could have been anything else.

“How old is that?” Lynette was on her feet and trying to touch it.

“Nope,” Bedivere held it aloft, “No touching unless you know what you're doing. This thing's a pain in the ass to repair.”

“How old is it?” Galahad asked, craning his neck to see.

“How old is it, Kay?” Bedivere asked.

“Uh,” Kay tried to do the math, “We got it when we were nineteen and we're forty-five now so...twenty-six?”

“It's older than me,” Gaheris pointed out, “Does it still work?”

“Absolutely,” Bedivere told them, “Also, I'm pretty sure I have hoodies older than half of you.”

“Whoever doesn't drive holds it in their lap,” Kay told everyone, “just to keep it secure.”

“So wait,” Arthur interrupted, “You have twenty-six years of pictures you haven't shown me?”

“Oh like you've shown me any of yours,” Kay countered.

“I'll get ours if I can drop you by your place to get yours,” Guinevere offered.

“Also grab a hoodie that's older than me!” Gaheris suggested.

“Fine,” Kay sighed, “the camera is not going through portals, though. Bedivere, which hoodie should I grab?”

“Any of the ones in the back right of the closet,” Bedivere told him, “Might want to grab one of your jackets, too.”

“How do you guys keep stuff so long?” Gareth asked, “I swear I can't get anything I buy to last longer than a couple of years.”

Guinevere and Kay were already through a portal.

–

“Oh my god,” Guinevere stifled a laugh as she came back through to pick Kay up, “That's. Not what I expected.” She was staring at the jacket he had slung over one shoulder.

“Just wait until they find out we lived in London for a few years,” Kay grinned.

“It's so,” Guinevere reached out to touch his jacket but stopped just shy of it, “Can I touch it?”

“Huh?” Kay turned his neck to look at her, “Oh, yeah, sure. It's not fragile.”

“How'd you get the spikes in?” she asked, “I've only ever seen these in pictures.”

“Easy,” Kay told her, “they're screw-in so all I had to do was make a small hole and sew around the hole to keep it from expanding.”

“So, punk scene?” Guinevere asked as she opened a portal back to the Du Lacs' kitchen.

“You have no idea,” Kay said with a laugh. As he stepped back into the kitchen, everyone heard him say, “There was no better scene to punch Nazis and fuck shit up.”

“What?” Mordred asked.

“Oh holy fuck that is a _jacket_!” Mordred exclaimed.

“Did you do that yourself?” Ellie asked.

Kay had the impending feeling that he was going to be stuck standing in the kitchen for a while as everyone filed over to crowd him in the name of getting a closer look at his jacket.

“Bedivere!” Kay called out, “Catch!”

Kay lobbed Bedivere's hoodie at him and Bedivere had to take two running steps forward to catch it.

“Smells like attic,” Bedivere cringed as he put it on.

“We can wash it when we get home,” Kay told him, “I have a feeling now that they're out they're going to get worn more than once every couple of years.”

“I'm impressed,” Elyan was gently touching the spikes on Kay's jacket, “So, really did you do this yourself?”

“Sure did,” Kay nodded, “You should have seen the rest of the outfit.”

“Pretty sure there's pictures,” Bedivere said as he fluffed out his hoodie a little, “Which box did you bring.”

“The red one,” Kay told him.

“Oh man,” Bedivere said with a laugh, “the really old ones.”

“Move,” Arthur said.

“Oi!” Ellie didn't move, “Wait your turn!”

“Brother's rights!” Arthur nudged her again,

“Should have been faster,” Ellie stuck out her tongue.

“Everybody to the living room,” Guinevere said, “Kay and I both need to put our boxes down before we can start looking through them.”

Arthur was faster this time, but Bedivere beat him to the couch. Kay sat on Bedivere's lap and almost immediately found two arms around his waist.

“I don't want to like,” Kay sat forward, “poke you in the eye again or something.”

“Again?” Arthur asked.

“There's a learning curve,” Kay told him.

“I learned,” Bedivere assured him.

Guinevere sat on the other couch and put her box on the coffee table.

“Not all of these are Polaroids,” she told everyone, “but they're still older than at least half of you.”

“It almost feels forbidden,” Gareth said, “seeing what you were like when you were closer to my age.”

“Like you were just always _adult_ ,” Galahad agreed.

“Oh holy shit,” Lamorak saw the one on the top of Kay's pile of photographs, “Is your lip split?”

“Nineteen ninety-seven, east London,” Kay remembered the moment vividly, “got into a fist fight with a skinhead. You should have seen the other guy.”

“So hold up,” Sagramore said, “This was _after_ you regained your memories?”

“There were few better places to advocate for right over power than the punk scene,” Bedivere told them.

“What about you two?” Galahad looked over to Guinevere, “What's in your box?”

“This one's mostly our first house together,” she told everyone, “We only lived in it for maybe four or five years before we bought the winery.”

“That place was a disaster,” Arthur recalled, “ _Bit of a fixer-upper_ my ass.”

“Holes in the roof,” Guinevere said as she opened the box.

“Still,” Arthur wore a soft, fond smile, “we made it ours.”

“Are you sleeping in paint?” Lancelot asked.

“Probably,” Arthur shrugged.

“He was,” Guinevere told them, “so naturally I grabbed a camera instead of woke him up.”

“Whoa,” Lionel's eyes went wide as he grabbed one of the Polaroids from Kay's box by the edges, “What is **what**??”

“A mohawk,” Kay was grinning, “I think I kept it for almost two years before I got tired of all the glue it took.”

“Of course you would use glue,” Bors shook his head.

“How's the jacket look on?” Mordred asked.

“Oh gods,” Kay laughed, “Hang on, I can find a picture.”

“Put it on,” Galahad encouraged.

“You can put it on,” Kay offered.

“Are you sure?” Galahad hesitated, “It seems. It seems...almost profane to _just put it on._ ”

“Trust me,” Kay assured him, “Jackets don't scale with you as you grow into yourself.”

“You both look so...small,” Tristan informed them, “Like, were you okay?”

“Eh,” Kay's smile faded a little, “there was a lean period in there for a while.”

“But we were happy,” Bedivere squeezed Kay.

“Oh were we happy,” Kay squeezed Bedivere with one hand while he dug through the box with the other, “Oh! Here's the complete outfit!”

“You look wild,” Gawain assessed, “Like, in the feral, undomesticated sense.”

“Probably was,” Kay told him, “Galahad?”

“Uh, right, yes,” Galahad reached to grab the jacket, a hesitation still present even as he grabbed it. He slipping it on, surprised by how the soft denim and how free-flowing the fabric was, “Oh, wow, this is _nice._ ”

“How's it fit?” Kay asked.

“A little long,” Galahad tugged on it, “but otherwise perfectly.”

“And the buttons?” Kay asked.

“Uh,” Galahad paused to button the thing, “little roomy, but still super comfortable.”

“It's yours if you want it,” Kay told him.

“Me?” Galahad squeaked.

“First-come, first serve,” Bedivere shook his head.

“It'll be nice to see it get use,” Kay told him, “Assuming you'll take it.”

“I like in this now,” Galahad decided.

Kay nodded, approving of the jacket's new owner.

“So,” Percival looked at Bedivere.

“Hoodie's still mine,” Bedivere was quick to answer before the question was asked.

“Jenny!” Isolde exclaimed, “You had a cat?”

“For, like, a month and a half,” Guinevere said, “It wandered into our house one winter. Apparently its family was on a long vacation and the petsitter let it slip out by accident.”

“Oh that's awful,” Yvain said.

“It's a cat,” Arthur said, “If they want to go somewhere, they're going to go somewhere.”

“Oh you loved that cat,” Guinevere rolled her eyes. Arthur didn't try to refute her.

“What's that?” Dinadan pointed to one of the photos in Guinevere's box.

“The car or the tree?” Guinevere asked.

“The car, but both now,” Dinadan replied.

“The tree was set to be cut down – beetle infestation,” Guinevere said, “and for some reason it seemed appropriate to take a picture to make it immortal or something.”

“Some reason,” Arthur snorted.

“Someone kick him for me,” Guinevere said, “I don't feel like getting up. The car was the ugliest thing we could find and it only lasted about six months before it caught fire on the I-five.”

Galehaut kicked Arthur in the shin.

“I will end you,” Arthur warned.

“Try me,” Galehaut was grinning.

“Basement!” Lancelot reminded them.

“I will take you down right here,” Galehaut told Arthur, “Won't even need anyone to move.”

“Either do it to shut up,” Arthur tried to sound serious, but he couldn't.

Instead he kicked Galehaut. Not hard, but not gently either.

Galehaut swept Arthur's legs out from under him and then pounced, pinning Arthur to the floor.

Bors had to take a step back to avoid Arthur's face meeting his kneecap.

“Fuck,” Galehaut said, letting Arthur up, “Sorry, Bors.”

“That was terrifying,” Gawain announced, “teach me to do that.”

–

They hadn't gotten through half of either box when Tristan and Idolse declared they needed to get the kid to bed.

“You'll bring these back, yeah?” Isolde asked.

“In smaller doses,” Kay promised her.

“I still can't get over the one of Bedivere with, like, five people on his shoulders,” Tristan chuckled.

“It was a great party trick,” Bedivere called from the couch,

He had refused to give up his seat.

“I love that you two documented the entire house gutting and reviving process,” Tristan said to Arthur and Guinevere, “It seemed like a lot.”

“It was a lot,” Arthur agreed, “as evidence by the sheer volume of pictures she took of me sleeping in construction equipment and paint.”

“Come on love,” Guinevere said as she closed the box, “Let's get you home before _everyone_ has pictures of you falling asleep on things no human was ever meant to sleep on.”

Arthur didn't try to convince her to stay longer. He'd seen enough pictures of himself sleeping for one life.

“This makes me want to print out a whole bunch of the photos on my phone,” Lynette said.

“Do it,” Kay encouraged her, “Absolutely, do it.”

“So wait,” Mordred looked around, “does this mean Yvain won tonight as the only person with a point?”

“I think Galahad won,” Yvain said.

All Galahad could do was grin and pull his new-to-him jacket around him and grin.


	4. Dinner Drinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kay, Bedivere, Lancelot, Galehaut, Arthur, and Guinevere enjoy a rare night together, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: _brief_ mention of a past rape

“I got it!” Kay called as the doorbell's chime faded.

“You're watching the stove!” Bedivere called out, “Damnit Kay.”

Kay chuckled and opened the door, “In, in before Bedivere finds a way to burn things.”

“Oi!” Bedivere tried to defend himself, “Good to see you two, though.”

“Likewise,” Galehaut said as he shrugged his jacket off, “Smells delicious.”

“Anything they make smells delicious,” Lancelot pointed out, “It's nice to walk in the door to smell you two's cooking, though.”

A thump followed by a few more, louder thumps in the general direction of the bathroom told them Arthur and Guinevere had just arrived.

“We could have driven!” Arthur said as Guinevere turned the faucet on full blast for everyone else's sake.

“I wonder if it ever gets easier,” Bedivere wondered mildly.

“Dinadan seems to think it does,” Kay said as he headed back towards the stove, “but Dinadan never had difficulty with them.”

“Arthur was always sensitive to environmental changes,” Bedivere pointed out, “It makes sense the portals would throw him off so badly.”

“Ugh, yeah,” Kay shook his head.

“What was he like,” Lancelot asked, “as a kid, I mean?”

“Oh,” Kay laughed as he turned all but one of the burners off, “He was fearless but also just. Sensitive.”

“We always knew a storm was coming through because he would start spacing out,” Bedivere added.

“His first blizzard Ector thought he was sick,” Kay told everyone as he drained the pot of mixed vegetables, shook the water out, then added them to the ground meat.

“Really?” Arthur asked as he and Guinevere made their way into the kitchen, “That story?”

“Hey now,” Kay pointed the stirring spoon he was using at Arthur, “it could have been worse.”

“Sometimes I'm glad the written texts got so many things wrong,” Arthur shook his head, “Can you imagine how much fun White would have had with that little bit of information?”

“White can choke on a dick,” Bedivere said without pulling back on his tone, “Most of them can, really.”

“Told you not to read them,” Kay rolled his eyes, “Guinevere, honey, you're closest to the fridge -”

“What do you need?” she asked as she opened it.

“Open can of tomatoes,” Kay told her, “Anyways, I think I'm one of the only ones who hasn't read any of what's considered _canon_ and I plan on keeping it that way.”

“Smart,” Lancelot told him, “Like, there were some pieces of truth, but in general.” Lancelot's statement was cut short as a full-body shiver. Galehaut hugged Lancelot from behind, arms locked tight around Lancelot's waist.

“I was inconsolable for weeks,” Guinevere said as she handed Kay the can she asked for, “Especially the one that painted me as a rapist and a gaslighter.”

“I was ready to hold a book burning,” Arthur growled. Guinevere nudged him with her shoulder. “What? I was!”

“You are one of the kindest people I've met!” Kay exclaimed, “In either life!”

Guinevere hugged herself and Arthur pulled her in for a hug. She rested her cheek on his chest and melted into him.

“You weren't capable of cruelty,” Lancelot told her, “In deed or word.”

“And yet still the backbone of Camelot,” Arthur added.

“It still just,” Guinevere sighed, “It sat so _wrong_ to see that. Read that. Both?”

“I'd imagine,” Kay put the can back himself, “Dinner still needs to simmer for about fifteen, wanna move to the living room?”

“Yeah,” Guinevere said, “sitting sounds nice.”

“Drinks?” Bedivere offered before he sat down.

“Please,” Galehaut said.

“Surprise me,” Guinevere told him.

“Not too strong for now, please,” Arthur requested.

Lancelot just nodded.

“You know my answer,” Kay told him.

Bedivere nodded and went to the freezer for their ice bucket and then to their bar cart to get started on the drink mixing process.

“So wait, Kay,” Arthur turned to his brother as he gathered Guinevere in his lap, “you've not ever read one work?”

“I also refuse to watch Disney's take on things,” Kay told him, “I figure there are things, however few, that I am actually better not knowing.”

“Okay, what else then?” Lancelot asked him.

Kay spared a quick glance towards Bedivere before he said: “Like what happens if I try to swallow a California Reaper.”

“Oh **no**!” Guinevere covered her mouth and looked towards Bedivere, “You would.”

“One of us had to know,” Bedivere rolled his eyes, “Arthur, your drink. And yeah, I can safely say I don't recommend it.”

Kay was laughing despite his best efforts to save Bedivere some face.

“Thank you,” Arthur said as he took his drink with one hand, keeping his other arm securely around Guinevere, “And you always were the most daring of the three of us, Bedi.”

“I had no concept of danger,” Bedi countered, “or self-preservation.”

“You had _some_ ,” Kay argued, “Once or twice.”

“When I first met you two I assumed Kay was going to be the more dangerous one,” Lancelot admitted.

“Good,” Kay grinned, “It was never really a formal arrangement, but if I was the loud and pushy one, then when Bedivere started getting angry everyone knew they were in trouble.”

“Except see him angry once and everyone knows you're the soft one,” Arthur tapped Kay's shin with his foot, “Not that that's saying much.”

“Are you kidding me?” Bedivere handed Guinevere her drink, “Kay's turned around on three-lane highways to help stranded animals!”

“Like you wouldn't!” Kay pretended to be offended.

“I might have thought twice before doing it in the middle of a flood warning!” Bedivere pointed out, “Anyways, that's how we had a dog for fourteen years.”

“He was such a strange animal,” Kay was smiling, “Good dog, strange animal.”

“How many pets have you two had together?” Galehaut asked.

“Oh gods,” Bedivere handed Galehaut his drink, “Are we including the communal pets?”

“Eh,” Kay shrugged, “Maybe some of them?”

“Communal pets?” Guinevere asked.

“London,” Was all Kay said, “Well, if we're including them, a lot. Like, a lot-a lot. Not including them. Uh. Help me out here. The dog. The cats.”

“Two dogs,” Bedivere said, “I'm counting the one we had for, like, three months.”

“I try not to think about him,” Kay frowned, “Oh! The chinchilla!”

“Plus the birds,” Bedivere said, “So, seven.”

“Hold up, only a few months?” Arthur asked.

“Someone in the neighborhood found him,” Bedivere turned around with his and Kay's drinks, “Old thing, didn't have long left. We suspected someone dumped him because they didn't want to or couldn't pay his medical bills.”

“We did our best,” Kay used the back of his hand to wipe the corner of his eyes, “It was a horrible thing to watch, really.”

“I'd bet,” Guinevere sniffed, “I wasn't even there and might start crying.”

“You're a gentle soul,” Arthur told her as he kissed her cheek.

“Birds,” Lancelot repeated.

“The birds overlapped both dogs,” Bedivere sat down next to Kay and handed him his drink, “Pair of doves that took up half the house.”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” Kay added, “Wasn't a terrible idea in the end.”

“How'd we get from spiting how history remembered us to dead pet stories o'clock?” Galehaut asked.

“We were talking about how Kay's the soft one,” Lancelot reminded him.

“Just don't tell my kitchen staff,” Kay rolled his eyes, “I need them to jump when I raise my voice.”

“Your secret is safe with us,” Guinevere promised him.

–

“Dinner!” Kay called as he turned the last burner off.

“Food!” Guinevere tapped Arthur's arm twice to tell him that she was ready to get up, “Where are we eating?”

“Anywhere works,” Kay told them, “but come serve yourselves, I don't know how hungry you are.”

The other five put their drinks on the coffee table, a quite but unanimous decision they were eating in the living room.

“It smells even better than when we walked in,” Galehaut took a deep breath.

“Looks delicious,” Bedivere leaned up to kiss Kay on the cheek. Kay began to hand out bowls.

“Jenny?” Lancelot asked quietly.

“Sorry,” she responded equally quietly, “Just. Lingers some times.”

“May I hug you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she nodded.

Lancelot hugged her tight. “I know the horrors or rape and verbal abuse,” he told her, “and what type of person is capable of such horrors. And I know you are so, so far from that type of person.”

“Thanks,” she sniffed, “really.”

“History has been unkind,” he squeezed her before letting go, “and you absolutely deserved better.”

Galehaut put one hand on Lancelot's shoulder and squeezed.

“It's nice,” Kay said as he watched everyone else serve themselves first, “to be able to be vulnerable with each other.”

“Yeah,” Guinevere agreed, “like, I'll never _not_ be at least a little bit in the headspace of Queen and/or leader, but here it's like...oh, Art, help me out here.”

“Like there's a little bit of the world where we are people, not titles,” Arthur took a stab at the feeling she was trying to verbalize.

“Yeah, thereabouts,” she nodded, “Persons, though, I think. We're individuals here.”

“No matter what we've done, or how we feel the weight of things left undone,” Lancelot agreed.

“Food has a way of doing that,” Kay sounded pleased.

“Food's some of it,” Arthur said as he filled his bowl, “but the company's most of it.”

“Oh this tastes even better than it smells,” Galehaut said.

“Where's you get a fork?” Kay asked.

“Oh, no,” Bedivere had seen Galehaut just stick his face in the bowl and take a bite, somehow coming out of the maneuver with a clean face, “he still needs a fork.”

“Oh my god,” Lancelot was chuckling despite everything, “How do you do that?”

“Smells good?” Galehaut shrugged.

“Living room,” Kay shooed everyone back to where their drinks were, “I'll bring forks for all of us and whether or not you use them is up to you.”

“Napkins,” Bedivere reminded him.

“Napkins, too,” Kay promised, “now go sit.”

–

“You can tell is was fantastic because we're all quite,” Galehaut said as he put his empty bowl on the coffee table, “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Kay and Bedivere said in unison.

“You two are adorable,” Guinevere informed them as if it was news.

Kay grinned and leaned into Bedivere as his empty bowl joined the assortment of dishes and glasses on the table.

“When my prosthetic was one of those that really doesn't do anything but make bypassers feel less awkward,” Bedivere said as he also put his bowl down, “if we were out in public and Kay asked for a hand, I'd just take mine off and chuck it at him.”

“The first time he did it I laughed so hard I nearly passed out,” Kay's grin turned a little wild, “It was just. So unexpected.”

“The woman in the isle with us just about pissed herself in fear,” Bedivere put an arm around Kay, “We were, what? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?”

“Thereabouts,” Kay agreed as he settled in against Bedivere, “It never stopped being funny.”

“The parts just became fragile,” Bedivere flexed his myoelectric hand.

“I can see it,” Arthur tried not to laugh too hard, “I can absolutely see you doing something like that.”

“This is the same guy who'd manage to strap a glove over his missing arm and make new recruits think they'd cut his hand off,” Lancelot pointed out.

“It got them ready for war!” Bedivere had no regrets over how many times he'd pulled that stunt, “If they couldn't handle a hand in the training ring, how were they going to handle War?”

“It was funny,” Galehaut admitted, “and effective.”

“We must have been a hell of a thing,” Lancelot leaned into Galehaut, who didn't hesitate to pull him closer, “to just kind of show up in the middle of everything.”

“My first and second impressions were so wildly different I had to spend some time assuring myself I was dealing with the same group,” Galehaut admitted, “In court and around the Table the five of you together could have conquered the world.”

“Ew,” Kay said, “No thanks.”

“And then the instant it was just the five of you,” Galehaut shook his head, still smiling, “it was a lot more like that. How did you five wind up being the epicenter of Camelot, anyways?”

“Well,” Arthur said as he put his bowl down, “I was more or less selected by process of batshit insane wizard on a power trip, I was raised alongside Kay by his father. Bedivere and Kay were friends before they could articulate what a friend was and they came with me when I ascended to the throne.”

“We were a hell of a three-pack,” Kay interrupted, “even as children.”

“I have no doubts,” Guinevere told them, “It's a good thing Ector lived in the middle of nowhere. I can see you chasing the neighbors chickens because yours got too smart to be chased.”

Bedivere tried – and failed – to stifle a laugh.

“Guinevere and I, well,” Arthur looked to her and only continued when she nodded, “she was a _gift_ and it took a while for us to learn how to get on like people.”

“I'd seen how my mother was treated,” Guinevere sighed, “and was so afraid that would happen to me that I decided I was going to be as cold and removed as possible to try to protect myself.”

“Which worked until the first time I came back from battle bleeding,” Arthur picked up.

“You were so stoic despite being in pain,” she frowned, “The way you carried yourself, the grace despite the pain, I realized you were in no way, shape or form, my father.”

“To be fair we were like, nineteen at this point,” Arthur added, “Which, at the time I had no idea how _young_ nineteen was.”

“And Lance, you came along, what,” Guinevere looked towards him, “maybe three years after that?”

“I have no idea,” Lancelot had never asked how their time passed in private, “but it feels about right?”

“This guy,” Kay is already teasing, “shows up out of nowhere for a tournament, refuses to take his helmet off, proceeds to beat the shit out of everyone, and Arthur goes, _Kay, go fetch my new champion from the arena_ ,” and just like that Kay's laughing too hard to continue.

“How have I not heard this story before?” Galehaut asked.

“Oh it gets pretty bad,” Bedivere was biting the inside of his cheek, “Hilarious, but bad.”

“So Kay, who's never heard me talk to him like that before, just kind of shrugs and wanders into the arena,” Arthur picks up for Kay, “He's dressed in his court finery, that's an important note here.”

“So Kay just,” Bedivere cuts in, “taps this stranger on the shoulder. This stranger who just fought for _hours_ without so much as taking a hit.”

“And I assume it's someone come late to challenge me,” Lancelot's flushed bright red, “so I try to just bring my sword down on him before I whirl around, but this newcomer is too fast and I hit air.”

“Meanwhile,” Kay's still laughing, “I jump back because, dude, seriously, I am unarmed and unarmored, but I punch the side of his helmet for good measure.”

“He hits it in a way that the thing _vibrates_ for several seconds after the strike,” Lancelot picked up, “so I'm just kind of freaking out and he goes – in this voice that carries so fucking well I thought it was magic for a moment – and he goes and announces the King has found a new champion and just. Leads me by the sword up to Arthur, where I'm Knighted on the spot and so terribly confused and can't tell where the helmet vibrating ended and anxiety vibrating started.”

“Meanwhile I haven't realized how close to death I came,” Kay manages to reel in his laughter enough to say, “and Bedivere is _visibly freaking out_ next to the surprise Knighting ceremony.”

“Holy fuck,” Galehaut only believed the story because he knew them so well, “that almost makes my arrival sound...calm.”

“My Champion shows up with someone in tow and makes it so obvious he;s found a partner without actually saying anything,” Arthur shook his head, “You two have always been good together.”

“What about you two?” Guinevere asked Kay and Bedivere, “I'd assumed you two were together from my arrival in Camelot, but was I right?”

“Pretty much,” Bedivere told her, “I don't know when we really became a couple versus so extremely close friends.”

“It was kind of an evolution rather than a shift,” Kay added, “but yeah, I don't remember any of our first life where you weren't there.”

“Adorable,” Guinevere echoed her earlier statement.

“And acutely aware of it,” Bedivere kissed the top of Kay's head. 

“Good,” Lancelot told them, “Somehow it makes your ability to command an entire kitchen even more impressive.”

Kay made a vaguely defensive and Galehaut poked Lancelot and, oh yeah, Bedivere realized, the whole of Camelot would have somehow been more strange if they were like this all the time.


	5. May Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordred hates the day, hates what it reminds him of, hates how his father is gone now, too. Galahad, as always, knows just what he needs to do.
> 
> Takes place post-series.

Mordred hated the day even if his birth date this life was in October, almost a direct six-months away from the first of May.

May Day, the day remembered as the day the Good King decided it was alright to drown a bunch of babies in the name of preventing one of Merlin's prophecies from coming true.

He shifted so that he was sitting up and on the edge of his bed, feet on the floor, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

“Hey,” Galahad said behind him, then again once Galahad shifted so he could hug Mordred from behind, arms locked tight somewhere between Mordred's waist and chest, “hey.”

“Hey,” Mordred managed, “thanks.”

“Always,” Galahad promised.

Mordred made a pleased sound despite his general affect.

“I know it's different now,” Mordred sighed, “and I know it's different but every fucking year it comes around and I can't help but think how unwanted I was, how damned, how...” Mordred sniffled as his words trailed off. Galahad hugged him tighter. “I wish I had asked him about it before he...”

Galahad hugged Mordred as he cried, let him empty his heart as much as he could, hoped he could replace whatever was being emptied with hope, with love.

“Thank you,” Mordred tilted his head back so it came into contact with Galahad's, “I love you.”

“I love you,” Galahad moved to kiss the top of Mordred's head.

“I need to get out of my own head,” Mordred sighed, “and I don't have the energy or anything for our usual methods of distraction.”

“I have an idea,” Galahad's entire affect came alive, “What time is it?”

“Uh,” Mordred looked to where his phone was face-down on the nightstand, “I have no idea. Hang on.”

Mordred leaned over and stretched as much as he could so neither of them had to get up, managing to just barely grab his phone without dropping it or damaging the charger.

“A bit after seven,” Mordred sighed, “Damnit. Sorry to wake you.”

“It's alright,” Galahad squeezed him once more, “now get on some comfortable but durable clothes and _come on_!” Galahad managed to, more or less, step over Mordred to start getting dressed.

–

“Nope,” Bedivere said as he closed Gawain's laptop, “not today.” Gawain made an unhappy noise.

“Come on!” Gawain complained, “I'm only up this early in hopes of actually getting one!”

“Release day, we know,” Kay was listening despite being busy on the other side of the kitchen, “You cross the digital picket line and you're sleeping outside for a month!”

“You can't enforce that,” Gawain crossed his arms, “Digital picket line?”

“May Day protests?” Bedivere prompted. When Gawain's reply was a blank look, Bedivere continued: “May Day is, historically, a day workers strike and put forward the conditions and improvements they're seeking.”

“And yet, Kay's getting ready for work,” Gawain challenged.

“Wrong,” Kay said, “Restaurant's closed for the day.”

“Then why are you up so early?” Gawain grumbled.

“I,” Kay pointed to himself with the knife he was using, “am making sandwiches.”

“Sandwiches,” Gawain repeated.

Mordred and Galahad came down the stairs as Kay was about to say something else, Galahad taking the stairs two at a time and Mordred at a slower, safer pace.

“Need any help?” Galahad asked.

“What am I missing?” Gawain finally looked around.

“We're delivering food to the protesters,” Kay said, “Well, at least Bedivere and I are, though the more people who can help, the better.”

Mordred joined everyone in the kitchen, still emotionally raw but curious about the proceedings.

“If you're looking to help get a peeler, a knife, a cutting board, and start working on the vegetables in the brown bags in the fridge,” Kay told Galahad, “Wash your hands first though. Surgeon's wash.”

“On it,” Galahad nodded, “Mo?”

“Uh, yeah,” Mordred blinked a few times, taking in what he was sure was going to be organized chaos in a few moments, “What else do you need?”

“Well,” Kay paused to take mental stock of everything, “Coolers are in the garage, someone needs to get ice but that's not until closer to when we're ready to leave,” he took a breath, “More perishable foods will be made last, but a sandwich assembly line will help make everything go faster. Sandwiches and veg will need to be bagged, fruit will need to be washed and dried, and water bottles will need to be taken out of the garage freezer.”

“Wow,” Gawain sounded impressed, “You two really planned for this.”

“Every year,” Bedivere nodded.

“Why aren't you at the front lines?” Mordred asked as he started washing his hands.

“We were,” Bedivere was starting to bag sandwiches, “when we were younger.”

“That's a bunch of stories for when we're not pressed for time,” Kay anticipated the next question.

“Why not anymore?” Galahad asked.

“Because being the picket line is exhausting,” Kay said, “and almost no one has enough food and water for the entire day.”

“Being able to help takes on many forms,” Bedivere had a pile of bagged sandwiches that looked like peanut butter and jelly, “and the front lines do not have room for everyone.”

Gawain put his laptop on top of the fridge and started washing his hands.

“How long have these protests been happening?” Gawain asked as he dried his hands.

“Over a hundred and thirty years,” Kay explained, “You're looking at the events behind the forty-hour work week, unions, major pushes for better protections.”

“It's officially called International Workers' Day,” Bedivere added, “but yes, it's used to highlight how much still needs to change, how far equity has to go.”

“We're comfortable,” Kay paused in the middle of slathering a piece of bread with jelly, “but the same cannot be said for so many people.”

“What's all the noise?” Dinadan poked his head into the kitchen.

“We're going to a protest,” Kay answered with no preamble or further explanation.

“Sweet,” Dinadan said with a yawn, “Lemme get dressed and I'm in.”

“Excellent,” Kay was grinning.

“Your restaurant and catering deals are a fantastic place to work, compensation wise,” Galahad said, “I've seen the paperwork that goes into it.”

“So is the hotel,” Gawain said, “at least from how Agrivane described it.”

“Being young and hungry and terrified you're going to lose your power or the roof over your head while you're already hungry is a terrible place to be,” there was a heaviness in Kay's voice, “I could never ask anyone else to live like that so I can pad my pockets.”

Bedivere leaned over to kiss Kay on the shoulder before leaning his temple against the spot he just kissed. Kay tilted his head and jostled his shoulder upward so he could kiss the top of Bedivere's head.

“Alright,” Dinadan was standing on the balls of his feet, “what do you need from me?”

Kay's grin returned.

The kitchen did, indeed, become a flurry of activity, carefully directed by Kay despite always being involved in some form of activity.

“Alright,” Kay's voice carried with ease, “There's a lot more of us than I expected, so we can split up. Pick a car, pick two coolers per car – one food, one water – and a box of fruit and then see Bedivere for where you're going to distribute your carload!”

“And remember!” Bedivere's voice also carried without effort, “If there are police, there is a hierarchy to who will be treated best in the holding cells, so if it's you, get in front.”

Galahad grabbed Mordred's hand.

“Well?” Galahad asked quietly, a hint of nervousness creeping into the question. Mordred was smiling, though.

“This,” Mordred looked around and squeezed Galahad's hand, “this I can celebrate.”


	6. Not one to Fall in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between parts 1 and 2

Lamorak resisted the urge to throw his phone against the wall after he checked the time – three seventeen in the morning was far too early for any unexpected thudding sounds and he didn't want to make anyone else as miserable as he was in that very moment.

He had it all, now – the court was back, had welcomed _him_ back, his King and Queen were **there** and now the second to last person he'd ever expected to settle down was getting married later today.

He was the last person, but that was something else entirely.

All things considered, being too awake to even attempt going back to sleep was such a small thing that it shouldn't really bother him.

He sighed, pulled the impossibly fluffy housecoat he'd stolen from one of the countless hotels his company had paid for in what felt like another life entirely around him, and stepped as lightly down the stairs as he could manage. He so rarely correctly remembered which one it was that squeaked if you put your entire foot on it, so he worked around that particular memory lapse by only stepping on the edges of the steps with the balls of his feet any time between when he'd heard Agrivane shut the television off downstairs and six in the morning.

It wasn't really that he would be missing a small handful of hours asleep that was bothering him, but it was the fact he was attempting to shift his frustration that felt a lot like anger to something so trivial that had made him feel so ungodly awake.

It was a nightmare, again, that had woken him so long before the sun would rise.

He cracked open the fridge door and squinted against the light. There was the usual fare that was, as far as he could tell, communal rather than proprietary. Cheese sticks, both individually wrapped and cut from a block and shoved in a clear plastic box. Assorted meat-things that had probably come in a form so phallic he understood why most people bought them pre-sliced. Juice boxes, which he never saw brought back to the townhouse but never seemed to run out. Grapes, always grapes.

Could he even call it a nightmare if it wasn't something his sleeping mind had made up?

He decided that a little bit of each of the communal offerings in the form of a miniature cheese board was his best bet. He kept the door of the fridge open so he could use that light as he fumbled for a plate. He'd been here for near eight months, but he still couldn't seem to get a handle on where everything was.

He'd seen it again, in his dream-slash-nightmare tonight, Bedivere as he fell and Kay as he screamed and Mordred as he disappeared from the room-turned battlefield.

“Hey,” Agrivane's voice came quietly from behind him, far enough away he knew Agrivane was doing that thing where he could bolt if someone startled in a violent way.

Agrivane had wanted to ask him about it, but knew he was a part of the problem, knew that he'd done nothing to deserve to become a part of anything good in Agrivane's life.

“Did I wake you?” Lamorak managed to keep each word neutral despite the self-loathing that had reared up within him.

“Nah,” Agrivane said with a yawn, “Ever start thinking and then just can't stop no matter what you try?”

“Frequently,” Lamorak told the truth, his thoughts still racing in the background. They told him of all he could had done and yet failed to do, reminded him how useless he had been when Merlin tried to slaughter them all where they stood. He had not charged in, fearless, like Percival or Bedivere. He had no magic, no leadership skills.

He had been worth so little even Merlin ignored his presence as the attempted slaughter began.

“Mind if I join you in the snacking?” Agrivane asked through a stifled yawn. 

“It's your house,” Lamorak shrugged.

“It technically belongs to someone I've only met once,” Agrivane grabbed a plate with much less groping around than it had taken Agrivane, “I just pay part of the rent.”

Lamorak bit back his automatic response – that Agrivane was the one with his name on the lease – and instead put his plate on the kitchen island behind him and took out containers of everything he planned on sampling from. 

“Cheese board?” Agrivane asked.

“Well, I hadn't thought of that,” Lamorak admitted, “but a cheese board does sound better than three am indecisive hunger.”

Agrivane chuckled, a quiet thing with one hand over his mouth in the shape of a fist that did more to hide his eyes than it did anything about the sound.

“Let me,” Agrivane told him. Lamorak let Agrivane shoo him over to the side. The fridge door shut behind Agrivane, but that seemed to do nothing to impede on Agrivane's impromptu cheese board assembly.

“Honey?” Agrivane asked, “Or mustard?”

“Uh,” Lamorak hadn't thought the first choice of condiments might be an address, not at all, “Both?”

Agrivane made a sound that was probably one of acknowledgment and pulled something out of the fridge before disappearing into the weird entryway room and returning with what Lamorak assumed was the honey.

He heard more than saw Agrivane prepare the two plates, the dim light that was so persistent despite the night's natural darkness giving him enough light to function but not enough to give away any details. When Agrivane opened the fridge again, Lamorak winced away from the light.

“Shit, sorry,” Agrivane hissed.

“It's alright,” Lamorak meant it, “Did that to myself earlier.”

“Ah,” Agrivane's nod could be made out as he turned around to start shuffling containers from the island back to the fridge, “I've been reading all night, so the light from my phone's pretty much burned into my retinas at this point.”

“You haven't slept at all?” Lamorak sounded more alarmed than he'd meant to.

“Can't,” Agrivane replied as he slip one of the plates to Lamorak, “though if you want light to eat, we can more to the living room.”

“Good idea,” Lamorak let Agrivane make his way to the living room and turn on the light next to the television – a perpetually dim yellowish glow that remained unchanged no matter how many times or how frequently the bulb was replaced.

Agrivane sat on the floor in front of the television, angled so his left side was facing the screen. Lamorak sat down across from him, his right shoulder towards the screen. Agrivane's plate-turned-cheese board was on the ground and Agrivane seemed to have no problems reaching down without looking. Lamorak feared that, if he tried, he'd wind up with those little trails of honey everywhere but the area where he wanted to keep them contained. He sat with his legs crossed and kept his plate on his knee, careful to be sure all the drips of honey were separated from whatever his next bit in line to eat were done with themselves before moving on to assembling the next bite.

They ate in silence, the sound of chewing a sort-of soundtrack that offered Lamorak just enough outside stimulus he could feel the racing, cyclic horror show that comprised his inner world being thrown off course.

“Thank you,” Lamorak told him.

“For what?” Agrivane seemed startled out of whatever was going through his mind.

“Uh,” Lamorak paused, trying to figure how to answer that without the entirety of his true-to-life nightmares and the feeling that he would always be rooted in that room of nightmares no matter how long life trudged on.

“Er,” Agrivane turned his face sideways as if it would hide the color rising in his cheeks, “You're welcome.”

Lamorak offered Agrivane a small smile and hoped his continued thanks would be conveyed.

–

The wedding was still over an hour away, but as he sat between Agrivane and the hotel room door, he wondered if it was at all possible to learn how to stop time, to give Agrivane space to process whatever it was he needed to process instead of force himself to find a mental bandage that would stem the proverbial bleeding.

It wasn't the right metaphor, some inner critic informed him; the bleeding had stopped two years ago. The scars, though, would never let any of them have their lives back.

And that was where the real suffering was, Lamorak had thought, that everything every last one of them did from the morning of the battle to, well, whenever their lives ended, was going to somehow be tinted by what had happened.

He kept one hand on Agrivane's back, a firm but gentle pressure between his shoulder blades, and one eye on the door to send anyone away should they pass by.

It was almost absurd, how Agrivane felt the need to apologize for being _human_ , as if being vulnerable made him lesser somehow.

It was absurd, too, the rage he felt at the world that shaped that part of Agrivane, as if he himself wasn't guilty of shying away from anything that even had the slightest chance of show the weak points in his modern-day armor.

He'd said, _“Maybe we should be better at expressing it instead”_ and he meant it; he believed firmly that there would be a better chance at anything that might resemble healing if the damages were allowed to find their way to the surface instead of continually buried under learned fears and ghosts of a twenty-first century life that had yet to know Camelot.

–

There was the stale taste of yesterday's mixed drinks and a growing pounding in his head that told Lamorak the after-party had been less of a couple after-reception drinks and more something that belonged in his college days.

It was the words that Kay and Bedivere had chosen for their vows - _until the ends of the earth_ and _knowing that together you are stronger than the heavens themselves_ – that had left him feeling empty in a way that lingered despite the more altruistic-but-genuine happiness he felt on their behalf.

It was true, though, wasn't it? It was their bond Merlin had thought he could sever and weaken what little Camelot had managed to build. It had been quite the opposite – even death had been unable to keep them apart. Whoever had been tasked with escorting Bedivere's soul to the next world had been told that, no, they weren't going to be allowed to do their job that day.

Even death hadn't dared to assert itself over them, and that horrified Lamorak beyond both words and thought.

It was something he knew he would never have for himself, and the mixed drinks had only served to elevate his happiness last night.

He ran his tongue over his teeth and decided he'd need to brush them at least twice before he even thought of going out in public.

–

He had been jostled out of his sleep again, not by nightmares or reality on loop in his unconscious mind, but by the sounds of laughter filtering up from the lower level.

Curious, he pulled his ill-gotten robe over himself and did not bother to try to avoid making any of the stairs squeak.

Agrivane was standing in the kitchen, Mordred and Galahad standing closer to the entryway than any of the room.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Galahad said it like he didn't quite mean it, “Did we wake you?”

“Uh,” Lamorak did not want to lie but he also did not want to say yes, “Didn't know you were coming over today.”

“Well, it wasn't planned,” Mordred told him, “but this one,” he jerked his head over at Galahad, “decided we absolutely had to get up early and go to the farmer's market and they had Agrivane's favorite bread in stock so we decided to run it over as soon as possible.”

“They almost never have it when I go. Oh, it's still warm,” Agrivane had broken the loaf in half and seemed to have his hand stuck in one of the halves, “Did you want some?” He held the half of the loaf that was not covering his hand out towards Lamorak.

And, well, if Lamorak's heart skipped a few beats, he told himself it was the selflessness in the offer.

–

It was a thump from the lower level followed by a groan that had Lamorak down the steps in record time despite having been woken up by the sound.

“Oh shush,” Agrivane was telling Gaheris by the time Lamorak got down the steps, “You've woken Lamorak up.”

“Sorry,” Gaheris had his head down on the kitchen island. He looked almost comical, his body bent at odd angles and books and pens scattered everywhere, “I'm just, I'm never going to get this.”

“Stop with those sorts of absolutes,” Agrivane's voice was an appropriate volume for two-something in the morning, “You _will_ get this and you _will_ get this before your final.”

“What subject?” Lamorak realized belatedly he hadn't grabbed his robe and as such was standing in the kitchen in nothing but his underwear.

“Business writing,” Gaheris still had his forehead affixed to the island, “I don't know why but it's just not clicking.”

“I can try to help,” Lamorak offered.

“Really?” Gaheris was sitting upright again.

“Yeah,” Lamorak tried to sound like he knew what he was doing.

It had been years since he'd taken a college writing class and, despite over half his classes being writing-related, he was suddenly convinced he'd forgotten it all and would only make Gaheris' current situation worse.

“I'll make you both some tea,” Agrivane decided for them, “Gaheris, Scottish breakfast blend, three sugars, you heathen, Lamorak, green tea with brown rice and a small squeeze of honey, yes?”

Lamorak nodded.

He hadn't realized Agrivane knew how he took his tea.

–

Lamorak had decided his work day was over a little after three in the afternoon. He'd gotten two article drafts and seven article pitches to his manager since he'd sat down at the cafe with a name he'd already forgotten, and his brain simply would not provide him with anything further.

His drive home was automatic, the stoplights and stop signs predictable things. There would be no sharp turns that should have flipped the car.

Despite everything, he sometimes thought Dinadan not getting anyone killed on the drive between the McDonald's where his life had changed in immutable ways and the home that belonged to Lancelot and/or Galehaut was the most surreal part of that night.

When he got back to Agrivane's, the smell of cooking hit him before the sound of something sizzling reached his awareness.

“Oh man,” he said before he realized he was speaking, “what smells so good?”

“In theory, chicken with cashew nuts,” Agrivane's voice came from the kitchen, “in practice, it's definitely got chicken and cashew nuts in it.”

Lamorak chuckled as he toes off his shoes and put his work bag on the entryway bench.

“Did you want some help?” he offered.

“Please,” Agrivane's relief was a loud thing, “I've got everything out but I did not consider how much faster chicken cooks than beef and still need to mix the sauce.”

“Keep the pan stirring and tell me what to do,” Lamorak decided that would be the safest way to do things.

Agrivane did, each step apparently memorized and the timing perfect. Lamorak was told each step almost the exact moment he'd finished the one before it, a synchronicity he would only appreciate in hindsight.

“Alright, pour it in, clockwise and slowly until the bowl is empty,” Agrivane said as he shifted to the side to make room, “Perfect, perfect,” Agrivane said as he kept stirring the pan's contents while Lamorak poured.

“So I take it you don't make this often?” Lamorak asked once he'd finished pouring.

“Never made it!” Agrivane sounded the type of proud one tended to be when they were trying to ignore how anxious they were, “It's Gaheris' favorite though, and he'll be home any minute from his last final.”

Agrivane turned the heat down and let the pan rest, but stayed close, wooden stirring spoon in hand. His hair was pulled back from his face in the same way it was when he did housework – tight against his head and in what might have been a bun, might have been a knot, to keep any of it from falling forward. This was Agrivane who needed his whole concentration on the task at hand.

“Okay,” Agrivane finally put the spoon down when he heard the front door open, “that should be Gaheris.”

“DID YOU MAKE CASHEW CHICKEN???” Gaheris was yelling as he ran into the kitchen, his shoes still on and his backpack still attached, “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you.” Gaheris hugged Agrivane and then ran upstairs, “I need to change, but thank you!!”

Agrivane chuckled and pulled out three plates instead of two.

“Uh,” Lamorak made a sound.

“Please,” Agrivane implored him, “You're home; eat with us.”

Lamorak felt his stomach drop to his feet only to return filled with what he'd heard referred to as butterflies, but he'd never guessed these butterflies were quite so violent.

He took a seat at the kitchen island before the realization _he'd fallen in love with Agrivane somewhere along the line_ could render the rest of him temporarily useless.

Agrivane turned back around with three plates and looked pleased that Lamorak was joining them for what was either a very late lunch or a slightly early dinner.

While home still wasn't a thing Lamorak thought he could call a place, he realized that if he was wrong about not being one to fall in love, he thought that, maybe, he could be wrong about home, too.


End file.
